Oh emmm gheee....safari's baq ....missd u plenry oooh....luvin ur update buh pls dnt kip me in dat much suspense again....it made me cry

safarigirl:
will have to wait till tomorrow or Tuesday, on my way to school and I don't have a laptop with me.

Started the update, but couldn't finish it. Will hopefully finish it tomorrow

Thanks honey.. Was thinking of it all through the week..I had to call you out lol

I'm sorry guys, I'm currently trying to complete registration for a new session in school and the process in my school is tedious and hectic. I leave home very early and return late and exhausted. The next two days will be hectic as well, so I won't post anything until the weekend most likely

Will see if I can update this earlier

Wish you a successful session....looking forward to your next update

****

Don’t worry, be happy.

Those are the legendary lines from a song that is the perfect irony to the life of it’s singer. Growing up, I heard that song a lot, for some very sick reason, it was my mother’s favorite track, especially when she was trying to drown out the sound of my terrified screams while one of the vermin she let into her house r-aped me unmercifully. Just like it was her favourite track, it happens to be my worst for obvious reasons….and I feel justified in my hate for that song after I learnt that the performer committed suicide.

How ironical.

The truth about my life is, happiness is an emotion that evades me, I can’t seem to explain my apathy for that emotion. Even when it’s staring me in my face, just waiting for me to grab it, even when it’s right in my presence, I can’t seem to reach out and just grab it, hold it and make sure it never escapes my grip. I don’t know why, maybe because I feel I don’t deserve it, maybe because I think of it as an illusion, a myth. I find it elusive, I fear it. I fear to reach out for that happiness because a niggling feeling keeps telling me that it won’t last and I don’t want to face any disappointment. I don’t want to put my happiness in the hands of another because people can be very fickle. People are untrustworthy, they like you on Tuesday and hate your guts on Thursday, they smile at you on Wednesday and frown on Sunday. People, like August weather, are unpredictable and only a fool places something as fragile as happiness in the hands of people.

I refuse to be foolish.

The problem then arises, if you refuse to place your happiness in the hands of others, if you refuse to welcome the idea of being happy, what happens to those who have placed their happiness in your hands unwittingly? Especially as reciprocation is not your thing.

I enjoy my outings with Ismail, the ydon’t happen a lot because I’m an introvert, but when they do, they’re fun and interesting and for those four or so hours when I’m with him, I forget about the evil of the world and just bask in the sight of him playing, the sound of his happy voice, the beauty in his smile- I enjoy watching him being a young boy and feel gladdened that I was able to give him that chance.

What I haven’t enjoyed recently though, is when he insists on Chuma accompanying us. I know that I’m unable to say no to Ismail, but whenever he mentions Chuma, I come dangerously close to refusing him- I just never get there because inwardly, I realize, I wouldn’t mind spending some time with Chuma as well.

It’s been an awkward two years between us. Probably the most awkward of my life. Ismail doesn’t know, Gladys doesn’t know either, no one but both of us know about the tumultuous time we’ve had the past two years. And it’s all my fault, I can’ even look the man in the eye anymore because everytime I do, it’s like seeing the depths of a hurt soul- like seeing a part of me.

I wish he could understand me, I don’t expect him to. I just wish he would understand where I’m coming from…..then again, I don’t think I understand myself anymore.

He didn’t retract his words like I had expected. The next morning came and even without him speaking it, just the way he looked at me told me what I didn’t want to know and it shook me to my core that this man really di love me. Then he repeated himself on New Year’s day, and that was the beginning of my withdrawal. It started with not picking his nightly calls, then refusing to speak to him whenever he came to pick up Ismail, and then I just stopped seeing him.

He called, he texted me, he sent his mother! He did everything humanly possible to understand why I was avoiding him, but he never understood because I never gave him the chance to. I was scared. I am scared. And when I’m scared, I either attack or retreat. Chuma has done nothing to deserve an attack, so I retreated.

So here we are, two years after his profession of love, a few weeks to Christmas, having another awkward outing filled with me talking to Ismail and trying to ignore Chuma’s presence, Ismail trying to engage Chuma and Chuma sending me longing looks laced with those of hurt.

I don’t know if Ismail notices the tension between us, if he does, he never mentions it. He’s just ecstatic to have us both around- his two favorite people in the world. He’s nine years old now, he’s grown taller and his English is so good you’d never think he barely knew a word of the language two years ago. Sometimes I look at him and I just beam with pride, the pride of a mother.

“Mom, I need to pee.” Ismail says, breaking my train of thought.

If I;m not mistaken- and I’m not, this is the fifth time Ismail is going to pee since we got to this amusement park three hours ago. I want to blame someone- Chuma, he’s bought him at least seven cups of smoothies so far and I’m starting to think they snuck in some behind my back, I sigh, “Let’s go.” I take his hand and attempt to pull him up, but he remains seated, “Ismail.” I begin warningly.

“I didn’t ask you to come with me, I’ve gone to the restroom six times, I think I know my way there and back.” He replies. So I got the number wrong, “Besides, it’s right there, I’ll be back before you know it” he points towards the rest room which is a few feet away from us. I have a very good view of the place and if he’s not out in time, I can always barge into the place.

Reluctantly, I let him go, he wastes no time to sprint away from me, I watch him go until he’s out of sight. I want to go after him, but I’m working on giving him his space, he’s a few years shy of puberty and even if I don’t want to think about it, I’ll have to stop babying him soon.

“How have you been?”

The voice spears through my thoughts and invades my entire being. I totally forgot who was sitting right beside me. I suddenly become tense at the sound of that smooth baritone and the way it washes over me. I turn to him and find his gaze fixed upon me, he doesn’t have a smile on his face- then again, he rarely smiles at me these days, so there’s no surprise there. He’s just watching me, waiting for my reply perhaps.

“Fine” I reply simply, unwilling to add any other words. I don’t want to start a conversation with him, I don’t know what to say to him. I wish I did.

I return my gaze to the restroom area, wishing for Ismail to be out soon so I don’t have to talk to Chuma, but I remember how crowded that place is and I realize Ismail might take a while. He looks on at me, as if waiting for something more- something he knows I can’t give, but Chuma is stubborn. He never just leaves things be.

“You can’t continue running away from me, from us.”

Did I add that he’s mighty presumptuous as well? I ignore him anyway, I will not be dragged into any form of argument with him in public. It beats me why he won’t just go away, sometimes I wish they would transfer him to some other state at work, or maybe he’ll get bored at the SSS and return to where he came from. I wish he would go far away and give me the chance to wipe him from my memory however difficult that may be. The fact that he’s always around, taunting me, constantly reminding me of my folly as well as my inner battles, unnerves and frustrates me at times.

“This is neither the place nor time to bring up such discussions Chuma, you of all people should know that.” I reply him without looking away from the entrance of the rest room area. I can’t even look at him when I talk to him, because his expression rips me into pieces and causes me some form of pain I can’t seem to understand. He has some pretty good expressions in his armory to make even the hardest soul soften just a little.

“When then?” he asks, I hear the edge in his voice, but I refuse to acknowledge it- or his question, “Initially, I thought you needed space, so I just left you to your thoughts, I gave you space, but it’s been two years now Isi. Two years of you acting like I don’t exist, two years of you not contacting me or at least responding when I try to reach out to you. Two years of me dying inside because I can’t seem to break that damned barrier you’ve used to barricade your heart. Damn it, left to you there will never be an appropriate place nor time for this discussion and you’ve proven yourself incapable of handling matters of the heart…..”

“What heart Chuma?” I retort, I’m sick of being vilified by him, sick of sitting here and listening to him rave at me like I don’t rave at myself enough when I look in the mirror, “The heart that doesn’t exist? The heart of a dead person? I would advise you stop wasting your time trying to resurrect this zombie, there are many women just waiting to be looked at by you and you waste your time with me?” I ask incredulously.

“It is my time to waste, not yours and if you think I haven’t tried to forget about you and move on, then you should think again because I have tried. I have tried to get involved with other ladies, I’ve tried dating, I’ve even tried sex and every single time, I can’t seem to get you out of my mind and it is frustrating,”

Well, I may not have put in as much effort as he has, considering I have limited options, but I’ve certainly gotten similar results. Although, I think I have even more valid reasons to not forget him, he’s such a breath of fresh air, I like how jovial he is, I find him caring and willing to go out of his way to do things for others which isn’t a trait most people have, he’s God-fearing, but not overly religious so much so that he makes you feel like an outcast, pitch in the fact that he understands me a lot and gets me even when I don’t get myself, he’s a gem, never mind how physically attractive he is…..but what’s his excuse for not getting me out of his mind? There’s nothing particularly interesting about me or my life, he could certainly do better.

“Try harder.” I reply drily, my gaze is steady on the entrance of the restroom, where is Ismail? He’s stayed much longer than expected, any minute now, I’ll be marching over to the restroom and raiding the while place like a lunatic


“I am….but it isn’t to forget you” he replies simply.

I should have a witty come-back for that, but I think he just threw in his punch-line and I’ve choked. I force myself to not look his way, so I don’t expose how much his reply affects me. He probably knows, Chuma doesn’t make any forgettable statements- he muses on his words before he speaks them so that they leave a lasting impression. It’s a rare talent, one of the many I appreciate.

I finally sight Ismail running over with a big grin on his face, he looks so happy, I instantly forget there’s a bug sitting right next to me, “Did you miss me?” he asks. It’s obvious the question is targeted at both I and Chuma.

“Always” I reply.

Chuma just smiles at him but says nothing, he may not be, but I’m glad Ismail is just in time to end our fruitless conversation. Ismail drops down to the grassy land between us, his smile has waned considerably and he takes repeated glances at Chuma as if he finds his behavior odd- which he should. I just hope Chuma doesn’t blow our cover with his sulking.

thanks for d update ma'am. really nice to read. ur story again.. but then if I may ask, what's with ur signature? hope all is well ma??

labaski:
thanks for d update ma'am. really nice to read. ur story again.. but then if I may ask, what's with ur signature? hope all is well ma??

all is well dear, those are just the lines from one of my best songs; Evanescence- my immortal

Thanks for the update

nice update.i want moreB-)

Am Tormented with this story....kip it up

i wish she wuld stop tormenting hersef!!!

Chai...safari gurl wan make me go write story o.i don decide say i go write story nd d stori title go be"safari girl,you are gud"

[color=#770077][/color][i][/i] I can't believe I am loving it, never liked romance but this beautiful recipe is catching my fancy
👍👍👍👍👍

Safarigirl, nice story. Please iits weekend. Update something both here and "in memory only"

I was following the story earlier but after the break, I thought that was it.

Welcome back! Missed your writing.

Just so you know, I think I'm your 'greatestest' fan.

safrigirl I've been following ur stories please come and update here. ure a very great and talented writer. Jah bless.

Chai.... who send me message o........ .....safarigirl I've been refraining from reading your stories because you always leave me hanging.... I was hoping this one was finished considering when you started, alas here I am wanting more..... nne don't do this to me biko

*****

I hate working at home, it’s a necessity given what I do and the fact that I have a child to return home on time for, still, it’s not something I enjoy. It defeats the core purpose of getting home which is to relax and spend time with family. Being locked up in my bedroom and typing away at my laptop is nowhere near having family time, but I must do this for a plethora of reasons that don’t include making money.

Working at home is one of the many therapeutic ways I use to cleanse my mind of thoughts of he-who-shall-not-be-mentioned, as much as I love spending time with Ismail, he constantly reminds me of the existence of Chuma as if he’s some sort of paid agent. We can’t finish a conversation without Chuma’s name coming up especially as he sees him as a mentor, it’s always about what Chuma says, how Chuma would do some things, I simply couldn’t run away from him even when I tried.

Ismail is currently attending to his assignment with his lesson teacher, a woman I scoured the entire Lagos for and had an extensive investigation done on because I would never bring in just anyone to my house. Normally, Chuma would come over to teach him, but since our little rift started, he’s been told not to bother.

My thoughts are distracted briefly by the ringing of my phone, I roll my eyes as I realize Ismail has once again changed my ringtone to one of the many options available, I pick up the phone and view the Caller ID, the number isn’t registered on my phone. I ignore the ringing until it stops, if I don’t have the number saved, the person must be as stranger. I return to my work, intent on finishing it or at least doing the bulk of the work before the end of the night.

Less than a minute passes before the shrill ringing breaks into my concentration once again, I pick up the phone and sure enough it’s the same number once again, this time, I reject the call just in case the caller didn’t get the point the first time. I barely drop the phone before it starts ringing again, who could this be? At the 6th time, I’m starting to think it could be Chuma trying to rattle me or something- but Chuma isn’t this immature I know that. The time on my laptop clock says 7:22PM, I feel an urge to call Chuma and tell him to stop disturbing me, but wouldn’t that be falling into his trap? And what if it isn’t him? Then I’ll just look stupid- or desperate, he’ll think I’m making up stories just to get an excuse to talk to him. I decide against that route, it’s far too dangerous.

I ignore the ringing two more times, at the 9th try I’m just about done with this annoying person, so for the first time, mostly out of anger and annoyance, I break a solid rule of mine and answer a strange call with a harsh, “What?!”

“Good evening madam.” A male voice greets from the other line.

“What can I do for you?” I ask, ignoring the greeting, I know I must sound extremely rude at this point, but that’s the entire point in all of this.

“My name is Toriola Oyeyemi, am I speaking to Miss Isidore Isama?” the man asks.

My brain freezes once I hear that name, that dirty, defiled name….i haven’t heard it in almost twenty years, even in my formal dealings, I don’t use it, how…..?, “Who is this?” my voice is now calm albeit cold and detached as my busy brain tries to justify why this man knows the name my evil mother imposed on me, she said it was my father’s name, she had wanted him to marry her, she was supposed to be Mrs. Isama, but he had bailed out on her when she got pregnant, he had a future, he wanted to go to school and graduate with a degree in a relevant course, he didn’t want a child, he didn’t want her. As much as she blamed her mother everyday for the destruction of her life, she also blamed the sperm donor who was too cowardly o take his own daughter, maybe if he had taken her things would have ended differently for her, she would probably not have been so thoroughly abused.

“Ma’am like I said, my name is Toriola…..”

“Who are you and who sent you?” I ask unwilling to participate in his attempt to initiate conversation.

“I’m a Private Investigator madam, my client is Mr. Clinton Isama and I was contracted to help find his daughter, I believe this is her?”

I look at the phone, could I be hearing right? Did the scum who contributed to my miserable existence actually think he could just hire some dude to find me and get to know me after all these years? I can’t deny I’m more than a little shaken b this call, but not so much I’m willing to just listen to every rubbish anyone comes up with.

“And what exactly do you want to do with her identity?” I snap, maybe I’m being just a little rude to this man, after all, he’s no more than just a paid agent, he’s neither my father or one of the many men responsible for my current predicament, but he just happens to be in cahoots with the only other person alive I can blame for my troubles outside my cursed mother and I can’t help but to transfer my aggression to him.

The man is silent for some seconds, probably gauging his next words, I take it he’s a professional at what he does, “Madam, please, I’m not asking too much of you, your father……”

“He’s not my father!”

“…Mr Isama, my client, hired me 8 months ago to find his daughter, he wishes to meet with you, but not without your agreement. Listen, he doesn’t know I’ve found you yet, I just got your phone number yesterday. If you can grant me this wish, I would like to meet you wherever you may feel comfortable and lay down the facts to you, whatever you decide after we’ve met, I will relay it to my client and we’ll never bother you again.”

As reasonable as his request seems, I’m briefly filled with an indescribable anger that this man, this fellow who was part of my creation twenty-four years later, wishes to meet with me. For what purpose? What is the point in meeting with a child you didn’t even get to see the birth of? He’s missed everything there is to having a child, why couldn’t he just continue with whatever life he’s made for himself and leave me to mine? Why appear from nowhere and disrupt my life? I simply don’t need this in my life.

Even as I tell myself that, my curiosity nags at me, haven’t I always wanted to know who my father was? Didn’t I dream of the days when he would walk into my mother’s house and take me away from all of the pain I suffered, how he would take me to a nice big house and give me my own room with a princess theme and a big bed with four posters? Hadn’t those dreams metamorphosed to thoughts of how I would tell him off when I did meet him, ask him why he abandoned me to a life of abuse and molestation, why he never took care of his responsibility, hadn’t I imagined it all? Am I about to throw away my chance of doing all of that because of a deep-seated anger at being rejected by my own father?

I want to see him. I need to see him, but before that….

“Can I bring someone with me?” I know I can’t just walk into any establishment and meet with a total stranger alone, I need to go with someone I know, someone I trust…..not that I have many options in that category, but still, a familiar face will be of great help in such a meeting.

“Of course, I would expect you to.” He replies a little enthusiastically.

“I’ll get back to you.” I reply and then I cut the call without waiting for his reply.

I wonder briefly if I’ve made the right decision, do I really need to see this man? Will seeing him do anything for me? Will it help me? Gladys has always harped on the importance of meeting my father. She thinks it will help my relationship with men- not that I would ever consider my relationship with the male race as a reason to do anything with my life, still, meeting him could give me some much needed closure and answer the many questions I always thought to ask.

I scroll through my phone to find Gladys’ number, she should be with me to meet my father just so he realizes I wasn’t abandoned after all, I want him to see the woman who trained me, the woman responsible for who I am today, and maybe, he’ll really feel some shame for leaving his responsibility to the world. I’m about to call her when it occurs to me that she isn’t in town, she travelled two days ago for an outreach and won’t be back till next week. I should wait for her…..but I’m not meeting my father yet, I meet the investigator first.

I scroll upwards for the only other person I can take to such a meeting , even though we haven’t particularly bee on good terms. I linger on the ‘send’ button, questioning my sanity and the wisdom of my choice. Will he even answer my call? Will he agree to accompany me when he realizes my call has nothing to do with Ismail? I tell myself he’s not like that, he’s different, he’s not malicious or vindictive, he won’t turn me down because of unconnected matters, besides, even if I call Gladys, she’ll ask me to call her son instead and he won’t refuse me on his mother’s orders.

A thought occurs to me, why don’t I call Gladys and ask her to compel her son to come with me for such an important meeting? Wouldn’t that be the coward’s way out though? Why compel him to go with me? I should call him myself and ask him to accompany me, he won’t refuse me, I just know it. Chuma is a far more mature person than that

Without giving myself a chance to think it over again and analyse, I click the send button and wait impatiently for him to pick before I lose my guts.

It only rings a couple of times before he picks up my call, “Hello?”

His deep voice brings me some form of peace and strengthens my resolve, even his voice can fill me with a surprising amount of confidence, “Yes Chuma, it’s Isi”

“I know, how can I help you?” his bland tone and straightforward question dampens my mood immediately, there is no cheeriness to his voice, he doesn’t even ask how I’m doing and I question kyh decision to call him.

I realise there is only one way to reply his straightforward question- with a straightforward answer, so I shelf my earlier thought of approaching this with some caution and sweetening the conversation before dropping the bomb and follow his lead, “My father wants to meet me and I need someone to come with me.”

My bombshell is met with some silence, one far longer than is expected considering he started this conversation like a cold-hearted jerk, “Excuse me?” he asks, his voice now has some colour to it and I detect the disbelief in it.

“I said my father wants to meet me.”

“Your father? Are you sure?” he asks, there is concern in his voice. Inside, I’m glad he can still express concern for me even after I’ve treated him like trash, I don’t even realize how much his concern means to me until this moment, I’ve missed that, as much as I say I don’t care about his concern or attention, the truth is, I do care, as disturbing a truth as it is, It must be acknowledged.

“I don’t know, I’m meeting the private investigator and I need you to come with me.” I usually don’t use the word ‘need’ when speaking of other people, I usually don’t need people. The fact that I even use that term is surprising even to me, but I guess this is a very important thing and I refuse to walk in blindfolded and alone.

“When?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t agreed with him on any of that, I wanted to be sure I had someone willing to go with me.”

“Okay, well, call me when you have a date and venue, I’ll be honoured to go with you.”

Thank you.” I rely a bit softly, now I’m just a bit confused and unsure of his attitude, he’s suddenly caring again, doesn’t he remember I’ve been a bytch to him?

“You’re welcome.” He replies, before I can say my good byes, he stops me, “Isi.”

“Yes.”

“I just want you to know, irrespective of what the past two years have been like for us, I will always be available to assist you in anything”

His declaration has a strong effect on me, I’m not used to this sort of person, he’s a sharp contrast to my many postulations on human beings and men especially, I can’t believe he’s willing to let any of my many mistreatments slide, is he just that lenient or is he holding hope that I may change my mind about him if he’s nice to me? Does he have any reason to do that? I remind myself that Chuma is not a man that should lack women, he has every characteristic required by any woman to have a relationship and more, maybe if I was your everyday woman, I wouldn’t bat an eyelid before acquiescing to his proposal, if I was just a little psychologically stable, I would want him in my life, if he can have any other woman, where is the sense in pining after me? Where is the sense in going out of his way with the belief that I’ll finally bend? If after two years, I’m still not sold on the idea of dating anyone, is there any point believing he’s still trying to get to me?

But hadn’t he told me to my face that he would continue to wait for me until I somehow came out of my little bubble and realized he was everything I needed? Shouldn’t that be some basis to believe he really is saying all these things to crawl his way into my good books once again and more?

As much as those questions plague me, I choose to push them to the back of my mind and just accept his offer w]for what it is for now- an offer, there is no need overthinking this, no need placing tags and putting ideas where none exist. I’ll handle everything as I have all these years- one at a time, I needn’t split my thoughts or compound them so that I lose track of what is in front of me and for now, meeting the cretin partly responsible for my bleeped up nature is my priority, hopefully, Chuma doesn’t become a source of distraction along the way

great

Thanks girl

Yay!!! Tnks for d update safarigirl.


Loving this story

This Isi sef ehn.... just dey form steel anyhow....

Nice update safarigirl.

Thank u Safarigal. This upadate is like rainfall in a desert place that hasn't had rain for months.
U have done well.Keep it up. U make me proud.

Thank yoi , Safari girl.

nice update ma

Hey Safari girl. Just finished reading ur write up. It looks so real. Bravo dear. Buh u could be helpful by giving updates amidst your tight itinerary. Merci beaucoup

SAAAAAAAAAFFFFARRRRRRIIIIGAAALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL. Where are uuuuuu?

abeg miss safari con continue dis tin wey u start naa

segsbenks:
abeg miss safari con continue dis tin wey u start naa

seconded

Safarigirl

Apologies guys, hopefully I'll post the next episode this evening, the power situation has been bad here so my batteries don't last long enough to type.


I'm considering bringing this story down for publishing, I'll try and keep posting before I make a final decision.

Thanks for your patience

*****

I don’t think I’ve ever had a nervous breakdown like this ever in my life…..I’ve pretty much tamed my emotions so that nothing ever gets to me except I want it to, I don’t like being not in control, but here I am, sweating profusely and shaking like I just finished taking a cold bath in the harmattan.

I’ve been giving myself pep talks since last night in preparation for this moment and I still haven’t managed to psyche myself up enough to not be a nervous wreck when it matters…..and to think there’s even a witness to this embarrassing point in my life- I’m starting to think he’s pre-destined to always witness my lowest points.

I look to my left, where Chuma is sitting in the driver’s seat, we had a bit of an argument earlier on when he arrived and automatically suggested I ride in his car and we leave mine behind, the original lan was for us to go in separate cars, I didn’t think I’d feel comfortable riding next to him, it’s bad enough I had to invite him to this meeting, but having to go in his car as well? i automatically rejected the suggestion, as expected, and he….well, he did what he does best- undermined me and insisted we go in his car, then he listed his reasons why, one of which was I would be too distracted to focus on my driving…..in the end, I grudgingly got into his car, and even though I’m somewhat grateful for his foresight now, as I sit here, scared to no end, I refuse to admit to him that he was right. I don’t think I have to admit though, I get this feeling he always knows when he’s right.

I stare ahead at the entrance of our meeting point, it’s a small, quiet restaurant somewhere in Lekki, very appropriate for our meeting. He…the private investigator, suggested this place, I’m not familiar with it, so I had to check it up on the internet to be sure it even existed, I didn’t want to take any chances just in case the guy really turns out to be the fraud I think he is. It’s much easier to think some dude is just trying to play a fast one on me than accept that the man partly responsible for my conception suddenly wants to know who I am after twenty-four silent years

“Are you okay?” Chuma’s warm voice cuts through the cold silence and my frenzied thoughts.

I regard him briefly, he looks quite the gentleman today, he’s dressed in a casual outfit of dark jeans, a sky blue polo and dark loafers, as usual, it’s a short-sleeved polo that hugs his biceps…..funny enough, the sun dress I have on is the same shade of blue as his shirt, I almost gagged when he got out of his car and I saw him dressed in the same colour as I am, how cheesy can we get? The first thing the PI will think is that we’re a married couple, then I’ll have to spend most of the evening correcting that notion unsuccessfully. I wanted to change, but going in to search for another outfit would have wasted too much time and I’m keen on punctuality.

So, here we are, looking every bit the married couple ,sitting in his car….even worse, he’s in the driver’s seat and not me, so for all intents and purposes, we fit the description to the T. To some extent, that thought gets my mind off the core purpose of our being here, as unwelcome as it is, I find it easier to deal with than the thought of this meeting.

I nod at his question even though I really am not okay, but what good will giving that answer bring? Whether I’m okay or not, this is something I’ll have to do, there’s no cowering away or turning back.

He suddenly takes my hand in his and I’m caught off guard by the gesture, I’m unsure of how to react to his establishment of contact between us so I just stare at him wide-eyed, he seems to not care about my reaction though because he maintains his grip on my hand, “I know you’re nervous Isi, you should be, but whatever happens in there, know that I’m right beside you, I’m here to support you, okay?” he speaks the words slowly, as if speaking to Ismail.

I’m touched by his care. A tiny side of me rears its head to put a negative spin on this, but a larger part just shoves it away, there aren’t any ulterior motives, I see the sincerity in his eyes. The truth is, Chuma is a lot like his mother; they both have a thing for going out of their way to help people and always want to ‘be there’. I don’t know what I’ve ever done to deserve such people in my life, but moments like this, I’m glad I have them.

I nod once again, and somehow find the voice to say a tiny, “okay.”

He gives me an encouraging smile, “Let’s go see what this is about.” He squeezes my hand reassuringly once again and gets out of his car, I follow suit before he can turn to open my door. Still, he turns to my side and takes my hand.

I attempt to pull my hand away- we’re already dressed like a couple, no need to walk in with our hands held, it will be so much harder to convince any sane person that we aren’t even dating like that, but he doesn’t let go, he has my hand in a tight grip, so even my pulling does nothing, and eventually I stop and let him take charge.

We enter the restaurant and are immediately hit with a cool air and some soft music, the inviting aroma is also a plus and my stomach rumbles once my nose inhales it reminding me that I haven’t eaten the entire day, luckily, the music and mellow chatter in the room dulls the noise considerably.

My eyes scan the entire room for the man- Toriola, I have a picture of him he sent yesterday, his image is pretty much engrained in my brain, so I don’t even have to look at the picture again. It doesn’t take long to spot him, he’s sitting at the other side of the room, “Come.” I say as I pull Chuma along, he hasn’t let go of my hand, so I might as well just drag him with me.

He silently follows me until we get to the table, Toriola looks up at both of us, his eyes slightly widen when they fall on Chuma, having spent more than two years around hum, I’m pretty used to his imposing form, the same can’t be said of strangers though. At the early stages of our meeting, whenever he and I would be out together, I used to bother about all the attention he was pulling, these days though, I kind of like the reaction to him, at least no one messes with us or speaks disrespectfully to me in his presence, he’s like a bodyguard.

“Mr. Oyeyemi.” I speak first, pulling his attention away from Chuma who I still don’t think realizes he scares people.

The man’s gaze moves to me, he looks a bit surprised at my presence, he’s obviously forgotten I’m here. He stands up, “Miss Isama?” he asks.

The question, I figure is directed at my marital status. We’ haven’t even taken a seat and he already thinks Chuma is my husband, that doesn’t bother me as much as his use of my biological father’s last name to refer to me, it doesn’t matter how many times I tell this man not to refer to me by that name, he’s programmed to use it, “Just call me Isidore.” I reply

“And this is?” he asks, his gaze once again shifting to the hulk behind me.

“Chuma.” I reply, “Chuma, meet Mr. Toriola Oyeyemi.” I introduce briefly, I purposely fail to put any tags to my relationship with Chuma, it’s none of his business anyway.

Chum stretches his long arm past me to grip that of Toriola, “Nice to meet you sir.” He gives a firm shake, I partly expect him to reel on and add some unnecessary words, but he surprises me this one time and keeps it brief. This guy might actually know a thing or two about decorum and has just been playing me for a fool all these years.

Once we’re done with the brief introductions, we all take our seats, “I’m glad you took out time to meet with me Isidore, I appreciate your effort.” Toriola begins with the sweet talk, suffice it to say, I’m not here for a vote of thanks, I intend for this meeting to be as brief and straightforward as it possibly can.

“What is this about Mr Isama wanting to see me?” I ask, choosing to ignore his comment.

Toriola coughs and sports a professional expression, he takes a glance at Chuma before diverting his gaze back to me quickly. Maybe bringing Chuma along was a good thing, “Your father…”

“Please, let’s refer to him as Mr. Isama for the duration of this meeting.” I interject, I barely know this man, so I’m still not comfortable with referring to him as my ‘father’…..especially as I’ve never had a father.

Toriola nods at me, “Whatever you’re comfortable with then.” He smiles, “Like I said, my client ,Mr Isama, has been searching for you for some years now. In fact, he came all the way down here from his base in Orlando, Florida, just to find you.” He says, he pauses briefly as if he expects me to be touched by that information, maybe clap and do a little jiggle to celebrate the fact that the sperm donor left whatever important business he has in Orlando to attend to poor me. I think he gets the point pretty quickly, that I couldn’t care less about where he came from or even the fact that he came to begin with because he gives me an apologetic smile before he continues, “I brought along some pictures of him.” He supplies before rummaging through his carrycase.

I sit up, finally, something that interests me. As much as I’ve been telling myself that this meeting changes nothing of how I feel about the man involved in my conception, I can’t deny, the days spent since Mr oyeyemi contacted me have only fueled my imagination and heightened my curiosity. It would be nice to know what he looks like; I wonder if we share any physical similarities. I know I have some of my mother’s features, like her nose and lips, but my height is certainly not from my mother and my skin colour is darker than my mother’s brown tone.


He finally sifts through the sea of papers and brings out a large envelope, he sets it on the table and drops the carrycase aside to take out the pictures from the envelope, he finally hands the collection to me.

I take it from him with shaky fingers, I guess all my pep talk went to the gutters, my nervousness still manages to rear it’s unwelcome head. The first picture is one of him standing in a beach, he has nothing but swimming trunks on, but I barely notice that. I look so much like him, one wouldn’t need a DNA test to confirm our relationship. We have the same mocha complexion, he’s rather tall, I’d say a few inches taller than I am, so it’s obvious where I got my height from. He’s a very handsome man, I might even say he looks better than my mother, but a lot of things come into play in all of this, one of which is the fact that this picture was taken in USA, where the weather is probably better than down here, and I can bet my entire bank account, he wasn’t living in a crappy, rundown shithole and surrounded by drunks.

He’s smiling in the picture, a large smile that just makes you want to smile with him, it conjures the opposite feeling in me though, I go through the rest of the collection in my hand, he’s smiling in every single one of the pictures. He looks so happy, so content. The pictures are obviously from different years, but he doesn’t look any different. I’m pissed at him, pissed because he seemed so happy while I spent years drowning in misery. He was living a life of content, a life of satisfaction while I languished in penury and depression, he didn’t even care that he had a child somewhere, it never bothered him. I could have been happy, he could have taken me with him, I probably wouldn’t have ended up this way. This bitter, I could have been a better person, a normal girl with dreams of getting married to a wonderful man and having beautiful kids with him, a normal girl growing up with other girls and talking about boys like they were a different, unknown specie. Innocent. Unblemished. Pure. Happy.


And all this time, he was just a happy fellow.


I get to the last picture and find him standing with a light-skinned female and four children, my eyes zoom in on one particular person though. The only girl in the picture. She’s probably eleven years old tops, she has her arms wrapped around the man who’s supposed to be my father and a large grin, he has one arm around her and the other around the woman. I lose my shit once I see that picture.

I throw the collection on the table, unable to continue to look at it.

He started a family. Yes, I don’t expect any less, it’s not like my mother was his legal wife or anything like that, what hurts is not so much his blatant disregard for whatever occurred between himself and my mother, but the sight of that little girl. He had another daughter and she got to enjoy everything I was deprived of, she got to have the normal life.

I will the pain to go away, I struggle to comport myself, such behavior is highly uncharacteristic of me, I don’t give in to random outbursts or rage-filled actions and certainly not in public. I close my eyes briefly, slightly aware of Chuma reaching for the pictures, I want to stop him, but a more rational side of me allows him see it, he came here to provide some form of support and we’ll be leaving together anyway, so he has to be involved in the process.

“He wanted pictures of you too, if you’ll be willing to give any. He’s told his family all about you and he was hoping you’ll be willing to see him and maybe meet with your siblings…..”

I block out Toriola’s voice, he’s told them about me? So, they’re expecting some reject half sister, the oldest of them should be no more than nineteen. I’m starting to consider the sense in agreeing to meet this man to begin with, why am I here? Is this really worth it? Do I really want to meet with the man who fathered me? Do I want to meet his new family? Am I willing to go through with what is bound to be a tiring, gut-wrenching, depression-inducing merry-go-round of acquainting myself with supposed family? With the kids who had everything I never had? Am I ready to turn my life upside down and re-construct my beliefs all because of the entrance of this new person?

The only people I have to deal with for now are Chuma, his mother and Ismail, no one else. I risk opening up my life to a whole new set of people, I could have a little sister, what ideals will I teach her? What stories will I tell her about my life? What will I tell my father even? What will I say happened to my mother? How do I explain her death? Do I tell him of the abuse I suffered under her watch? Do I tell him of the nightmares I have even now because of all that abuse? I should throw it in his face, tell him how much of a failure he was in my case blame him for my current situation and my warped ideals, make him feel the same pain I’ve had to deal with all these years. But can I even conjure such feelings in him? Even if he failed with me, he has a little girl to prove that he isn’t really a failure. He has a second chance. I have nothing.

“Isi.” Chuma’s soft voice filters into my sub-conscious

It’s only then I feel his hand against my back, rubbing it in a slow, circular motion. I open my eyes and find his concerned gaze staring at me, “Are you okay?” he asks softly. Do I look okay? Rather than give him a witty reply, I just shake my head at him. I’m far too emotionally drained to engage him in any sort of game of wits, and from the look on his face, I doubt he would humour me even if I tried.

He turns an apologetic gaze to Toriola who is staring at us with confused eyes, “Mr Oyeyemi, I’m very sorry, but Isi seems to be overwhelmed by this information for now. If you don’t mind, maybe we can re-schedule this meeting.”

He looks a bit put off by Chuma’s request, but he masks it with a smile, “Of course, I’m sorry if she was overwhelmed by the information.”

Chuma smiles, “No, please, don’t be, rather, we should apologise for the inconvenience this is bound to cost you.” If I were in a better mood, I would probably be giving Chuma a standing ovation right now, I swear I never imagined he could be this smooth. He just keeps surprising me, “Here…..” through my peripheral, I notice him digging his hand into his pocket and I briefly wonder what he’s searching for until I notice him bring out about five pieces of a thousand naira note, what the hell is he doing?

He hands the money to a now smiling Toriola, “This should at least cover for your transportation, we have to leave now, but we’ll get back to you soon. Can I get your card?”

Toriola eagerly sifts through his documents once more and hands a small, blue card to Chuma while my brain is still trying to process what the hell is going on. Once Chuma gets the card, he stands up and pulls me up with him, I find that I’m far too weak to fight him, so I just follow his lead.

“Nice meeting you sir.” Toriola says as he and Chuma shake each other, I bet his pocket must think it was also nice meeting Chuma’s money.

“The feeling is mutual.” Chuma replies, “Like I said, we’ll stay in contact.”

“I await your call.” Toriola replies.

I don’t think either of them realise that this meeting is about me and so no one else should give assurances or express expectations without duly consulting me.

Chuma nods at him and the new both walk out of the restaurant. Once I’ve come to terms with the happenings of this meeting and my father’s new life, I’ll be sure to rip into Chuma and ask him who exactly he thinks he is and in what capacity he was speaking especially as I highly doubt I will want to meet with my father or his new family. I just hope I can peg this as a nightmare and eventually forget it ever happened